Silence again.

"…I… Look, we have known one-another for a long time. If it will put this behind us, we can replace the car, swear my… child to stay away from you and your family, and we can help to pay for treatment for your wife's… injuries."

For a long moment, Hailey has no words.

"If you had offered to return my car, that would've been less of an insult. 

"Blood for blood, Viggo. With interest."

A sigh is audible through the receiver. Then, a click, and the line goes quiet.

She hangs up the receiver, then resumes cleaning her rifles.

When that's done, she gets out her bulletproof vest and takes it upstairs, dressing for a busy night: black undershirt, the vest, black dress shirt, her signature dark green tie, and a black suit, fitted perfectly, with hidden pleats to allow for easy movement.

Knives hidden at her hips and in her boots and up her sleeves.

Viggo knows what she's planning. It's obvious.

He can only respond in one way.

She goes up to her bedside table, opens the drawer, and pulls out a heavily-customized SIG Sauer P226. The trigger's been replaced with a flat one sized for her finger, the barrel replaced with a threaded one for her silencers, and the slide replaced with one ported for reduced weight and recoil. The slide and barrel have been treated with black cerakote, while the trigger, hammer, decocker, and slide and mag releases have been with dark green. To finish it off, the backstraps and side panels have been replaced with custom pieces designed to sit perfectly in her hand, with a dark green design engraved on the textured panels: a thorn-covered rose vine curling around a dagger.

The weapon gleams faintly in the moonlight, sitting firmly in her hand and emitting a subtle aura of excitement.

Hailey loves her gun. Mae never fails to cheer her up a little, even when things are awful. "Work to do, babe."

She fits a suppressor to its barrel, screwing the attachment on securely, then pats it once.

And she steps out to the living room, tucking herself into a corner of two particularly sturdy walls, shielded from any windows or doors, to wait, listening carefully.

For minutes on end, there is nothing.

No sound, no light: nothing.

…Then, faintly, she can just barely hear the unmistakable sound of feet scuffing at the gravel path in the yard.

She tracks the origins of the sounds as carefully as she can without moving from her spot. Reverse ambush time.

The scuffing noises draw slowly closer, migrating around the house and towards the large bay window at the side.